Ice Wine
And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of him for one of the world’s ready men with a pair of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild grapes that ever grew in Tuscany. The Shovel Man See? Black eggs, not grapes. Each pipped berry bloated with juices. Frosted by the seasoning of the season Snow in the brambles like white sheep falling I fed the earth with slow penances, crumbling nights into the soil. A hundred times I ate bread before the sunrise. Son, the work was for you, and it was worthwhile. There was a snake around the eggs in July there was a drought in August there were briars, and mould on the east ridge. Our neighbors told me to stretch my back to make the ice wine next year But I remembered my father, his hands brown his head red from the sun, steaming, sweated his height, his green bottle and the love in it thirty summers ago I am waiting (my hands freezing) for your first hurried sips of velvet and mandrake. I am waiting for us to drink stars.
—Gabriel Olearnik
Gabriel Olearnik studied medieval history at University College
London. He is currently an attorney and practices corporate law.
